Grady Chambers

The weather turned bad and I got happy.
That's wrong—I mean the morning sky

was ash blue, birds on the ground. I mean
not happy but good, not good

but fastened, steady, like every train in the city
was running late, but no one minded.

On 12th Street, tarpaulin swelled
and bowed in wind. Rain drove straight

through a woman's dress. And again
on Hollis, driving: drenched flags, damp black

trees, the leaves dripping
like rinsed hands. I pulled over.

A girl held her mother
by the shoulders on a porch.